We All Look Elsewhere
by Bayonet
Summary: Malik is haunted by his little brother's ghost, but instead of revenge Kadar wants him to act on his feelings for Altair. Done for the kink meme
1. Chapter 1

**Done for the Assassin's Creed Kink Meme. The prompt was _"_****_Malik is haunted by his little brother's ghost, but instead of revenge Kadar wants him to act on his feelings for Altair." _I am not normally a writeanon, but I felt like I could do justice to this one. At least one more chapter is due after this. Be patient!**

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عمى العين ولا عمى القلب

-Blindness of the eye is better than blindness of the heart.

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Even as a child, Malik had experienced vivid dreams. When Kadar had died, his brother had plagued his dreams in so many different forms that Malik was sure that he was to be haunted forever by his presence. He often awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for air and entangled in the blankets and pillows of his bed. Those dreams with his brother were always the most stunning. He could see the blood smeared across the man's face, his hands, that gaping wound in his side that would not, could not be closed, even by the best doctors the Brotherhood had on hand. Kadar had died in pain, grasping weakly at his brother's dirty robes, eyes filled with fear. And it was those eyes that always seemed to linger with Malik when he awoke from his sleep. They hovered in his presence like some unwanted spirit, and continued, months after the tragedy, to plague him and his thoughts.

So it was with great confusion that the company of his brother's memory seemed to fade like blood in the river where they washed their robes. Malik had been certain that it would remain with him for the rest of his existence. But time had passed. Humility in the form of Altaïr's presence was as sudden and unwelcome at first as any annoying insect. But he had changed. Even the rafiq had seen the look on the assassin's face when Malik spoke of his brother, even in an offhanded mentioning. There was a tenseness there that couldn't have been caused by any other mission or assignment. Altaïr always seemed to handle his assassin work with a certain grace and forwardness that never permeated into his every day actions. The man could be as quick as a hunting eagle when he chose to be, snatching feathers out of Malik's hands or tipping his incense pots with a mere breeze of his form passing by. But the killer's quickness fled when he stepped into the bureau most days. It was as if he was trying to restrain himself, for Malik's sake. The look he gave his amputated arm, even under the layering of bandages and the cloth of his robes, made the rafiq think that his arm would grow back out of pity.

Reservation. It was a word that should have never come to mind when thinking of Altaïr. But as soon as his assassin training picked up the padded footsteps of his former adversary, and Malik turned his head to offer the greeting of their shared bond, the other assassin seemed to freeze, his movements becoming slower, more methodical. He was always thinking around Malik. He was always aware of the tenseness, the blood that had been spilt between them. If Altaïr could have scraped the lifeblood of his brother off the cobblestones where it had been poured, the man would have tried until his hands were raw. There was no doubt of that now in his mind.

Having the other assassin walking so delicately around him just spurred his anger towards the man. He wasn't a cripple. Of course he would love to take on the missions that Altaïr did. To feel the freedom of that lifestyle again made his throat tighten instinctively. But he had other duties now. He was trusted as an informer. He protected the new members of the brotherhood on their adventures into his city. Altaïr was a familiar face in a crowd of many who he often never saw again, if he caught a glimpse of their features at all. He had scorned the man the first couple of times he had come. Of course. The blood was still fresh between them. He wanted him to suffer.

There was a sick pleasure in seeing Altaïr's face contort with pain as he took the verbal beatings in silence. Trained silence. He held his tongue, but Malik could see that his fists were shaking under his robes. He felt the anger, shame, guilt as much as any man. He couldn't run from emotions, only hide them under masks of detachment. It was when that mask fell, as it was more and more around Malik, that the rafiq had the opportunity to see what roiled beneath. There were wounds there. They still stung the assassin. His pride would not let others in, and his guilt would not let himself out.

Kadar's voice still echoed through his dreams at times, especially on days when he was sick or exhausted from the day's work. But his brother had taken his leave, and instead of his own face reflected in the eyes of a dying man, they were instead reflected in the eyes of a haunted man. Altaïr had made his presence known in increasingly more of Malik's dreams as of late. Often he was simply a lingering touch on the rafiq's shoulder, a distant voice in the background. But more recently, he was becoming a solid entity. He would be by his side, a gentle guiding tone in his voice that was non-existent in the waking world. Altaïr wasn't known as being a tender individual, not in any sense of the word.

But he could be patient. He was adept at listening. Malik often found himself running on about his day and the troubles within to the man, who sat on the pile of pillows in the corner of the room, fists beneath his chin, eyes fixed on a place just to the left of the one-armed man's ear. He would be listening, of course. Malik had tried to trick the man and ask him questions. He wanted him to start out of a slumber, to look at him with dazed grey eyes. But it never happened. The gaze that always met his was calm, measured. He listened. He understood. Perhaps it was one of the many ways that he was trying to be forgiven for his mistakes. The man seemed to have a list of them in his mind. There was always that small flame of guilt in his own eyes, even when he smiled. The emotions never reached those two entities. Malik had forgave him long ago. But it was his choice to take up such a burden, and the man would not be convinced of otherwise.

He had tried. He had voiced his concerns for his health, he had voiced concerns for his missions. Malik had gone so far as to try and get Altaïr to voice his troubles to him. The man wouldn't budge. Short of physical violence, there was nothing that Malik could do. He was as cooperative as a stray cat, and just as standoffish. There had to be a breaking point, even for the great assassin. He was sure to reach it at some point. No man could suffer so much and still keep his emotions that trained. There had to be an outlet, or the whole world would crumble in on them. Often times that outlet was the targets that the man was assigned to. It was with a distinct brutality that he made his kills, returning with more blood on his hands and bracers than Malik had ever bathed in during his work as a novice.

Of course the kill was necessary and so the rafiq would let it go and retrieve the blood-soaked feather from his charge's fingertips, placing it under the counter and willing it out of his mind until the man was out of the Bureau. It was only once the controlled footsteps of his assassin brother had faded that he would tenderly retrieve the feather, by then drying silently on the wooden slats below the countertop, and examine it. Always covered thoroughly, from stem to tip. And it would be around then that Malik would utter a prayer to whatever heavenly being resided in the world that the man was on their side, and that the fates hadn't dealt him a Templar birth. Altaïr's sheer determination alone could dispatch his enemies, let alone his skill.

Even when Altaïr was injured, hauling his beaten body into the Bureau's safety and relative quiet walls, he never asked for anything more than a place to rest for the night and perhaps a cup for the water he would retrieve from the fountain in the garden. Nothing more. Those grey eyes, dull with pain and exhaustion, would cast themselves upon him from underneath the hood, and then they would slide on to other things; the maps that lined the walls, the rolled parchment that was stacked haphazardly by the door, the pillows on which he was usually sprawled, and then to his own bloody hands. It was there that his gaze would remain, brows knit in contemplation. There was no fear there for the tasks he had to perform to keep his Brotherhood safe, simply an acknowledgment that this was the life he had been given and that he would serve until he was beaten bloody and raw, unable to draw another breath into his body and drag himself another inch forward.

There had been nights like that. Malik didn't even need his other arm to count the number of times it had happened, when the assassin's injuries had been so grave that he hadn't even made it to the Bureau before collapsing in a side street somewhere, or on the roofs surrounding the safe-haven. It had been sheer luck that he hadn't been found by Templars and dispatched quickly when he couldn't put up a fight. Malik had been responsible for saving him more than once, dragging the man's prone form back into the safety of the Bureau and tending to the wounds and raging fevers that would kill a lesser man. The chance that Altaïr would not recover from his injuries was always a stark reminder of how fragile their lives truly were.

And it was always with a strangled "Many thanks brother," that Altaïr would greet him with when he awoke from the coma-like sleep that he usually fell into when his body was injured beyond the repair of his own hands. There had been pride. There still was. Altaïr took great pride in the work he was set out to perform, regardless of his demotion at the hands of Al Mualim. The fact that he had been trained in the assassin's ways seemed enough of a reason for him to keep his strong chin held high, and his jaw clenched against all the troubles that the weary world threw him. And so the pride remained, through all the dark nights that Malik had sat beside him, weaving a needle through the tanned flesh of his companion, listening to the rattling breath of the man who sat cross-legged on the rafiq's bed, unmoving except to utter his curt thank-yous and customary "safety and peace, rafiq," when he limped out of the door the next day.

He was not above pain. It was written on his face like the maps that Malik often gazed at, and often he was just as readable. But he would never cry out. Not without reason. It was in the innumerable, sweat-blurred nights when his fevers were uncontrollable, even with the one-armed man's knowledge of medicines and healing, that the man would cry and moan though his teeth, eyes jumping like crickets under the confines of their eyelids. Those were his weakest times, and the ones that he wouldn't speak of. Ironically, those were also the times that Malik's heart ached for the broken assassin who thrashed in the sheets of his bed, tears staining his cheeks, knuckles fisting through his hair. There were nightmares there, and the rafiq was happy to go without sleep for a night, if only to keep watch over his charge and make sure that he did not tear himself asunder with the grief that seemed palpable in his fever-soaked dreams.

Of course Altaïr dreamt. Everyone did. When he held his vigils in the main Bureau while the man was ill, Malik could hear the noises that he made as he fought off his enemies. Everyone was his enemy. Even when he slept, Altaïr did not rest. He often awoke looking more exhausted than when he had taken the rafiq's bed the night before. The one-armed man would usually try to coax him into staying another day, but there was always a refusal in store for him, followed by a string of apologies and thank-yous, and the shuffle as the assassin pulled his hood over his eyes and fled the Bureau. It had become almost habit now, to ask him to stay one more night in order to work up his health. If he could convince Altaïr to stay in his company, he could at least administer medicine and clean the wounds more thoroughly, with the light of day as his guide. It hadn't happened if Altaïr had anything to do with it. Unless he was too ill to walk and Malik could physically keep him in bed, he would try to leave.

Tonight had been one such night. The assassin had dragged himself through the roof of the Bureau, tumbling into the stack of pillows in the corner of the room, weakly disentangling himself as soon as he hit the floor. There were arrows in his back, and Malik had looked up mid-sentence from his work only to gasp and throw his quill and ink aside, moving around the countertop to assist the injured man. Altaïr was already attempting to pull the barbs within reach from his body, tugging at the shafts with a grunt of pain.

"Stop, stop." Malik slapped Altaïr's hand from the quivering arrows, pulling the fabric of his robes away from the wound so that he could inspect them further. "These are deep, how close were the archers?"

"I… I did not see… I was climbing away from my target…" Altaïr made a gesture with his hands, as if he were scaling an invisible wall before him. The arrows that speckled his side like the tail feathers of a bird rattled as he moved, and Malik pushed his arm down to keep the man from compounding on the injuries he had already received.

"So they were behind and to the side." The rafiq grimaced, gauging how deep the barbs of the arrows were within the flesh of his companion. If the archers had been in front of the man, they would have been dispatched easily. So like the Templars, to shoot from behind as he was escaping. Cowards.

The man beneath his skilful hand was slumping to the side, his breath ragged and short.

"Altaïr." Malik shook him gently, watching as he snapped back into consciousness, grey eyes darting about before focusing with some difficulty on the one-armed assassin. "Stay with me, brother. Did you make your mark?"

As an answer, the man fumbled in his robes, pulling out a bloody feather and setting it before Malik's gaze. It was probably soaked with more of Altaïr's blood than the target. But he had succeeded in his mission. He could rest. Malik would send word that the assassin was not to be dispatched for at least a fortnight. He had to. If he pushed himself any more with the injuries he had sustained this night, coupled with the ones that had still not healed from missions past, Altaïr would drop dead of infection or exhaustion before the moon had even finished it's cycle.

Malik took the feather gently from the fingers of the assassin, who was swaying in place now, eyes closed against the pain. The adrenaline that had probably helped him escape and make it to the Bureau was wearing off. He would slip into unconsciousness, and would be a dead weight. Malik couldn't carry the man with one arm, even if he wanted to. Months of sitting behind a counter and looking over maps had diminished his muscle mass considerably. He still went through the training exercises that he had been taught when he was a novice. He never got to use them, unlike the assassin who was currently bleeding out on his carpet.

Altaïr was all muscle, coiled under his tan skin like a cobra ready to strike. He could crush lesser men like a cat snapped a baby bird's neck in its jaws. A spike of jealousy wiggled its way into Malik's throat, and he suppressed it with a scowl, shaking his companion once again into consciousness. It was taking more time for the man to rouse from his stupor. He had to get him away from the prying eyes of passing soldiers and into his own bedroom. A few merchants and beggars had already looked in with interest when they had seen the bloodied floors and a mess of a man offering the normally well-mannered local scribe a feather. The bedroom would be best, and it was with a poorly-concealed grimace that the rafiq made Altaïr stand and lean against him, leading the assassin through the rough wooden door and into the dark private quarters of the Bureau.

"Show me the wounds." Malik let Altair slip from his grasp, lowering him as steadily as he could to the low sleeping mat. Altaïr slipped one hand under his cowl, lifting it from his head and throwing it aside. The rest of his clothing was too much for his uncoordinated movements, and he relented to Malik's touch, the rafiq pulling the short blade from it's scabbard at the assassin's back and tearing through the assassin robes. It would be no use trying to pull the tunic off while the arrows were still in. They would catch on the feathered end and cause more pain and bleeding than necessary. Altaïr would simply have to have another outfit made for him once he reached Masyaf.

In total, there were six arrows in his companion's side. More than one archer had found his mark in the assassin's body. This would heal with time and care, but they would not heal well. There would be scars. Altaïr was a man of pride, but he was also a man of understanding. If there were to be marks from this night, then so be it. Battle scars already crisscrossed his tan flesh from enemies past. Even Malik was not without mark, though he did not make assassinations. There were guards to enjoyed tormenting the one-armed man when he was out in the market. He had to learn to take it, learn not to reach for the knife that was tucked safely into his robes. That would cause a commotion, more than he needed. He was a rafiq, a scribe in the city of Jerusalem. He has taught his body to be patient. To take the blows that it received. He had learned the art of medicine not only through patching up the novices that passed through his Bureau, but also from treating his own wounds, light as they might be compared to an active assassin's work.

"This will hurt, Altaïr." It was a statement that felt stupid in the situation that they were both dealing with, but Malik felt his friend tense under the words instinctively, as if ready for a sword-blow. "You cannot stiffen your muscles, brother. You need to relax as much as possible, or the arrows will do more damage coming out than they did going in. I want your shoulder to be usable again, without weakness." Malik had seen sword injuries that never healed. They left the muscle warped underneath puckered skin. It was ugly. The arm or leg that was dealt the damage couldn't support weight, couldn't be used effectively. It left the soldier a cripple for the rest of their lives. The thought of Altaïr, the strongest of all the brotherhood, laid low by a wound that turned him into a cripple made the rafiq's throat tighten. Never. Not as long as he breathed and ran this Bureau. He had suffered enough for both of them. The phantom pains where his arm was supposed to be reminded him of this. Altaïr didn't need any more grief. Not now.

Feeling the muscles of his companion's shoulder once again unwind themselves, Malik leaned against the other's back, searching for a good direction to pull the arrows from. Finding the angle that the closest arrow had entered, he yanked experimentally from the same direction, feeling the barb wrench further to the surface but otherwise remain beneath the skin. Altaïr winced visibly, but held his tongue, eyes screwed tight against the pain. He looked like he was ready to vomit.

"I'm sorry, brother. They are deep." The rafiq murmured against the smooth curve of the other man's neck, feeling his back once again release it's tension and relax, if only slightly. Uttering another brief apology under his breath, Malik ripped the arrow from it's stubborn position in the man's shoulder, carefully setting it aside before pressing a clean cloth to the hole where it had once been. A sharp intake of breath, and a choked sob from Altaïr, who had his head in his hands. "There's nothing I can do, friend. These have to come out."

"I'm not complaining brother. Keep going." His voice was hoarse and scratchy, and when he turned to look at Malik, his face was drawn with exhaustion and pain. But his eyes were as clear as day, a bright grey not unlike the glint of sunlight on steel. There was trust there, infinite and deep. Altaïr turned away once again and relaxed himself for the next arrow's removal, gritting his teeth against the handles of one of his throwing daggers.

The next arrow came out easier than the last, but the blood that spilled from the wound was just as quick. Malik kept as much pressure as he could with one arm, but it was a losing battle. Sighing, he reached out for the other assassin's hand, feeling his fingers flinch under the unwanted contact. He guided them to the man's shoulder, instructing their position with his own hand. "Hold your hand to this cloth, Altaïr. You need to put pressure on the wounds to keep them from bleeding too much." Another arrow, and this time a cry of pain. His heart wrenched. He continued.

After an hour of work, all six arrows were lined up neatly on the rug, their wicked points glinting in the candle-light. Altaïr's shoulder had been wrapped tightly, and Malik gave him a cocktail of different herbs to help dull the pain. The assassin was now sleeping, his head tucked under his arm, face still rife with pain. It would take time to heal him. The rafiq had been watching the slow rise and fall of his companion's chest, and had to let a small smile flicker across his face. How true those words. The man was a mess of bruises and scars, wounds long ago healed from previous missions. The biggest wound he had sustained, however, still hadn't healed. That was the bloody cut to his heart that had been inflicted so many moons ago, at Solomon's Temple.

Malik bore a similar wound, and for a long time he had let it fester and turn raw, unable to even glance at Altaïr without feeling it burst open again with anger. But it had healed, as all wounds were wont to do. His was now a faint scar, and although it caused him a twinge of pain on occasion, it had disappeared from his thoughts. To see Altaïr, his chest still cut open, his pride and grief and sorrow still visible to all who glanced upon him, tore at Malik like no honed blade could. He wouldn't forgive himself and it was _killing_ him.

Finally figuring that the man was asleep, Malik stood slowly, sweeping through the Bureau and blowing out the candles that he had left unattended in the main room. There would be no more studying tonight. Altaïr was a stubborn patient at best. If he had any strength in him by morning he would be attempting to climb the wall and make his way out of the city. His sense of duty was unfaltering, and it was one of the positive aspects that Malik had discovered about the man. If he asked Altaïr to retrieve a scroll or tonic from the market, he would obey without question.

Of course, an assassin was not an errand-boy, and Malik had his own guilt to deal with when he sent his companion out to do his shopping. But it was helpful. The job of a rafiq might not have been as active or exciting as he would have liked, but to hide his true identity was more of a task. In order to act the part of the local scribe, he would have to buy the necessary items and make it look like he was working on a map or treaty and not helping his assassin brethren slaughter the town leaders.

The rafiq returned to the back room once the rest of the Bureau had been tidied up a bit, the blood that had splashed the walls and floor cleaned up as best as he could given that he could barely see in the gloom. Malik had brought several of the pillows from the courtyard with him, and set them down on the floor beside the sleeping mat that was currently occupied. He wouldn't disturb Altaïr, not when he was so exhausted. He would keep vigil as long as he could. It was the least he could do for the man.

The room was comfortably warm, the sun's warmth leeching out of the bricks that the building had been made of and filling his senses with an overwhelming drowsiness. Malik fought the urge to settle down and sleep as long as he could, but before long his head slumped against his chest, and he was ushered into the world of dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2 up! Not as long as I had hoped, but I didn't want to draw out this whole thing with Kadar and Malik too long. I am planning on putting one more chapter in for resolution's sake, and then it will be done. a **Long** oneshot I know, but I have gotten nothing but praise, so I hope you all are still enjoying my ramblings!_

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_But helpless pieces in the game He plays_  
_ Upon this chequer-board of Nights and Days_  
_ He hither and thither moves, and checks ... and slays_  
_ Then one by one, back in the Closet lays_

**_Rubaiyat of _****_Omar Khayyam, Verse 49_**

_****  
_

The void in which he occupied did not reek of fear and pain as his other dreams had.

Malik found himself seated in the position he had fallen asleep in, arm lying in his lap, legs tucked under him in a kneeling position. His body would complain the next day, he was sure of it.

He was not in a nightmare for once. This was… unusual.

Standing slowly, the rafiq took stock of his surroundings, which didn't take long. There was… emptiness. A palpable amount of nothing that seemed to encroach into his personal space and push him inwards. A crushing weight that at the same time didn't weigh a thing. It was with a mix of dread and fascination that Malik heard a throat clearing behind him.

Turning slowly on his heel, the one-armed man felt the weight upon his chest suddenly retract, and scenery begin to unfold around him, like a flower blooming in the sun. He was back at Solomon's Temple, or at least it seemed as if he was; Malik knew that the construct he was currently standing in was nothing but a dream world, a realm that couldn't be possible. And yet here he was.

Feeling the wall closest to him, his fingers came back slick with moisture; the air was damp and oppressive, just like it had been in his memories of that fateful day. Was this a dream, or had he somehow been implanted into his own mind?

Looking down, Malik grunted in disgust. He was not in the assassin's whites that he had worn for the mission. In the nightmares previous, the familiar dress of his Brotherhood, drenched in the blood of his brother as they had been, was always a comfort.

His brother.

As if on cue, Kadar strode around the corner, dressed in the same outfit he had died in. Blue eyes, piercing in their familiarity, ghosted over Malik's form, looking at him with a maddeningly neutral air. "Hello again, brother."

"Kadar." Certain he was in for another nightmare, perhaps his own sword running his brother through this time, Malik stiffened visibly. "What is it that you want."

His brother opened his mouth to speak, and for once a fountain of blood did not spew forth from his throat. His eyes were not filled with pain, merely curious.

"I expected more of a warm greeting from you, Malik. Or have you forgotten your brother?"

"You can see through me like still water, Kadar. Don't be foolish." The rafiq hissed without thinking, not used to holding a civil conversation with the memory of his brother. His dreams had been plagued with blood and pain and always, _always,_ there was that blood-curdling scream. From whose throat it came he was unsure, but the sound tore at him and left him lying in a pool of his own sweat when he finally awoke. "I would never forget you, brother."

"Then why do I sense such hostility emanating from you?" Kadar stepped forward, and as if an invisible barrier existed between them, Malik took a step back, instantly cursing himself for his actions. "What makes your eyes fill with fear, brother?"

"You…" Even now, Malik's mouth seemed to be unable to work around the words that his brain delivered to him easily. _You are dead, brother. You have been dead for many moons and you will never come back. I held your body and I saw the blood and you couldn't breathe because it was in your nose and mouth and I couldn't wipe it away fast enough oh my brother I am so __**sorry**__._

Hearing a chuckle from his companion, Malik's head snapped up from where it had sank to his chest. Kadar's unusual eyes were still trained on him, but there was a smile playing on his lips.

"Don't mock me."

"Why would I do such a thing? You're my brother, I love you."

"_You are mocking me, Kadar_. You died in Solomon's Temple and yet you come back night after night and deliver nothing but sleepless nights and agony for me."

Kadar's face fell, and Malik couldn't help but feel a kernel of triumph in his heart. He had finally stood up to the memory of his brother, the twisted abomination who only served to visit his slumber and provide him with perfect details of his own murder, night after night.

"Malik. What do you speak of?"

"You know very well, _brother._ You cannot make me believe that you are unaware of the pain you have… you continue to cause me."

"I am not responsible for the nightmares, I assure you."

Malik swung around to face his brother, a snarl twisting across his lips. "Then who is? Is this some divine retribution then? Am I a damned man forever? Have I not repented enough for my sins? Have I not let the one man I thought I could never excuse back into my life and bandaged his wounds and forgiven his multitudinous sins?"

"…Altaïr? You still blame him brother?" About to launch into another onslaught of words, the rafiq paused, confusion washing over his face and mirroring the look that his brother was wearing.

"What do you mean?"

"You speak of nightmares and retribution. Obviously my death has plagued you. I am not responsible for your dreams, big brother. Only this one."

"You…. Surely you had some hand in causing me so much grief, Kadar," Malik felt his stomach lurch, and once again cast his eyes over the form of his brother, so familiar and at the same time so foreign. Was he truly speaking to the spirit of his kin?

"I would never think to land such a destructive blow to you. If you are still haunted by my presence, brother, then I would suggest absolving some of the blame you have placed on yourself. You were not responsible for my death, you know that." Kadar offered a small smile, taking another step towards the rafiq.

This time, though his legs twitched in anticipation, Malik did not move. Emotions that he had thought concealed were beginning to overwhelm him, and he cast about desperately for something to explain this turn of events.

If this truly was not a dream, and a visitation from a spirit, then he was either mad, or dead himself. Panic rose inside of him, and the rafiq spun around, certain that an attack had been led on the Bureau and that he had been slaughtered in his sleep.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Malik turned and slapped Kadar away from him, his defenses once again flaring to life. His brother looked hurt for a moment, but the cool mask of neutrality slipped into place once again. Kadar had always sought to mimic the older novices, and had learned quite well how to conceal emotions by the time he was assigned to Solomon's Temple.

"I am sorry, Malik. For what you have felt, what you feel now. You look at me like a rich man looks at a leper in the streets. For whatever my memory has done to you, I am sorry," Kadar frowned, and then bowed his head, as if in an act of regret.

"I don't know why you've… you've come now, Kadar, but I cannot deal with…. With _this_," the rafiq waved his hand at the words, to the dark stones and flickering torches that consisted of his memory of Solomon's Temple. "I have to look after Altaïr, he is wounded severely and if I do not wake he will try to leave the Bureau and bleed out in Jerusalem."

"I know for a fact that he still sleeps, though fitfully. Brother, I might have passed on, but I still look after you and Altaïr. I love you both as much in death as I did in life."

Feeling a bubble of hatred well up inside, Malik could not help himself. "How could you love a man who was so engrossed in his own pride that he cost you your life?" The words were flung like barbs, and the rafiq couldn't help but hope that they would make Kadar wince.

"The same way you could love a man who cost you your arm and ranking, brother." The response was so calm and reserved, and yet Malik felt like he had been punched in the gut. So this was truly a spirit. He knew.

"I know about your feelings, Malik. I know about the concern that plagues your thoughts when Altaïr is in Jerusalem. You know the lengths that he has tried to regain some semblance of respect back from you, and the lengths he continues to put himself through for causing you and I so much pain. I know that for better or for worse, he is the soul you have set yourself to lock talons with, for as long as you still breathe."

Opening his mouth to respond, the rafiq snapped it shut once he realized that nothing coherent would come out. Had his brother also witnessed the metamorphosis then?

"Altaïr's pride lays in shatters at your feet, Malik. He is doing this for you. You are the one injury that he continues to bandage and treat and stitch closed. He can't truly become what he is destined to be unless you forgive him and yourself."

"I… I have forgiven him." At Kadar's unimpressed look, Malik quickly continued, "though it is hard to forget your memory, brother."

"I don't expect you to forget me." Another smile, and Kadar reached out once again for Malik, planting a firm hand on the taller man's shoulder. "Nor do I. I was part of you, and in a way I still am. I do not wish my memory to plague your nightmares any more, and so I desire for this visitation to be a reminder of what is most important to you."

"Why do you wish no harm on his soul? This is a question I must have answered."

"What good would it do to harbor hatred into the afterlife? What can I possibly do to Altaïr that he hasn't already done to himself through self-punishment and grief? He understands what errors he made in the past, and this is enough for me to forgive him for his actions in the Temple. If it had been me in his position, with that much power and the ability to put an end to the man who was causing so much pain…? I would have probably desired the same actions."

"You can't say that."

" I can't truly despise a man who works for personal justice. Isn't that the wish that we all share? We work under the Creed with a common belief, and it serves us well. The fact that Altaïr might have had a different method to the goals of a group does not make him a bad man. It simply means that he sought after the goal more and made mistakes because of it." Another tight squeeze to his shoulder, and Kadar stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head to one side.

"These things…. They take time, brother." He did not want to agree with the logic that had been set before him, but to his brother's credit, the young man was as forgiving as always, even to the man who had dealt him his own death.

"I understand, and that is why I have not interfered with any of your proceedings with Altaïr until now. I did not wish to upset the natural order of things. You are both healing from wounds that are ugly and deep. You have found away to forgive Altaïr, and that is a step in the right direction. You no longer look at him as an enemy, but as someone who shares your desires. He has become your brother again. You need to let him know this, or let him suffer in the cloak of your silence."

"I… will take this into consideration."

"No, you will do what I tell you to do." Kadar's voice held an edge, but his face conveyed no aggravation. "I might be dead and gone, and you were my superior. But if you do not let him know that you have forgiven him, in plain terms, then he will not have strength for what lies ahead."

"And what lies ahead?" Malik's brows dropped in confusion, and he considered what his brother's cryptic words could mean.

A ghost of a smile, and Kadar shook his head. "I cannot tell you the things that the dead are permitted to see. That is not a world that you, with your feet still firmly planted in the bright world of the living, can reside in. I will simply tell you that there are dark times ahead, and deep sorrow. Do not twist my words into a prophecy, but take them as a bidding to prepare yourself."

"I… do not understand, brother."

"If you do not protect Altaïr and help him on his journey, then he will not have the strength to complete the tasks set before him and you will find yourself truly alone."

Malik felt his heart drop in him like a stone, and fear blossomed deep within. "I cannot lose him." Determination set his jaw in place, and he turned back to his brother.

Kadar smiled, genuinely this time. Malik had said the right thing, he knew it. "I am happy to hear you rally so fiercely to defend him, brother. You are both on your way to great things, and I am certain that if the men I knew upon my death once again join together and fight for a common belief, they will be victorious. Don't let my memory come between you and Altaïr. You are bound forever by grief and tragedy, but that does not mean that grief and tragedy should in turn rule over your life so thoroughly. Safety and peace, Malik."

"Safety and peace, Kadar." The world faded, and the rafiq slept soundly for the first time since his brother's death.


	3. Chapter 3

_Every second, dripping off my fingertips,_  
_Wage your war,_  
_Another soldier, says he's not afraid to die,_  
_Well I am scared…._

_****  
_

The pain had settled to a dull throb thanks to the medicines that had been administered earlier, but Altaïr still felt fire spread through his shoulder when he struggled to sit up. Looking around wildly, the assassin soon realized that he was still back in the Bureau. Malik was sitting beside him, head on his chest, sound asleep.

"Malik?" The rafiq didn't stir from his position, though his frown deepened into an ugly scowl. Altaïr reached out to squeeze his companion's shoulder, eyebrows raising when he didn't see any measured response. Had the man taken a drug cocktail of his own to help him get to sleep? Malik had been a light sleeper all of his life. Even as a master assassin, Altair had found it hard to escape the Bureau without the rafiq noticing and allowing him one last snarky remark before his departure. Such deep slumber was unusual.

"Malik." Another attempt, this time with a little shake for emphasis. Nothing. Altaïr sat forward, temporarily ignoring the throbbing ache in the muscles of his shoulder in favor of trying to wake Malik. He had removed the arrows from his body and bandaged his wounds. The least he could do was try and keep the rafiq from being late for his duties. Malik was on a schedule the entire day. Missing the novices that came through his city would enrage the man like nothing else, and would smear whatever perfect record he strove for.

Lifting the one-armed man's head from it's resting position on his chest, Altaïr looked for any signs of life in the dark face he had come to know so well. Nothing. Dark lashes drifted across sun-tanned skin, and the rafiq's mouth hung slightly open. Something was wrong.

"Wake up, brother, the sun is high in the sky and you have duties to perform." Altaïr muttered the words, running his hand across Malik's stubbled cheek and patting it gently, trying to evoke some sort of response. "Idiot, you are going to sleep in and then you will have my head for it." Panic rose like a bubble in his chest, and the assassin forced it back down with a few dry swallows. He needed water. He needed to keep his head from spinning so viciously.

He needed Malik to wake up.

An exasperated sigh, and the assassin propped himself up once more, chest spasming as his weak shoulder strained under the weight of his body. He wouldn't be able to climb well, not for a while yet. Exercise and stretching would be required to heal the scarred and mangled flesh. Laying Malik gently on the sleeping mat he had just occupied, Altaïrpassed silently through to the main room of the Bureau, slipping into the garden and taking a moment to look upwards.

The sun was indeed high in its daily arc across the heavens, and he could feel the heat beating down on his palm as he shaded his eyes with a wince. Water. Crossing the garden to the small fountain that gurgled cheerfully in its niche in the wall, Altaïr splashed cool water onto his face, palming a few handfuls of the cool liquid into his parched mouth before shrugging lopsidedly and dunking his entire head under.

The water felt blissfully cold on his scorched and dusty skin, and the man couldn't help but let a sigh follow the gasp that fell from him as he surfaced again, water running in tiny rivers down his neck and chest. Looking down in surprise, Altaïr frowned as he realized that the unusual lightness that he felt was not from the dizziness of blood loss, but the fact that he was lacking his assassin whites. The robes that usually graced his form had been cut away to make room for the removal of the arrows. He remembered muttering curses as the fabric had been shredded away with his own knife, as if a part of him was being removed forcefully. His hand drew back behind him even as his mind ran through the muddied events that he could remember from yesterday. Finding no hood, Altaïr's frown deepened. He felt….. naked.

Turning back to the dark inner sanctuary of the Bureau, a wavering bolt of fear whispered through him. What if he couldn't wake the rafiq? Malik was, for better or for worse, the only thing that could connect him with his life before he had been demoted, stripped of his rank. The man had spat on Altaïr, had raked his eagle claws across his back and pecked at his face. He had every right. Pride kept him from turning away from those who looked at the empty sleeve where an arm should have been, but that did not mean that it hurt any less. He had been demoted, same as Altaïr. His position kept him indoors, away from the action and glory and _danger_ that was a life of an assassin.

Then again, that was why he had arrived at the Bureau with arrows in his chest and a deathwish upon his lips.

A deathwish that had weaved through his blood since he had been initiated into the Brotherhood, possibly before. And Malik had always been at his side, a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him from charging into that vast unknown with too much excitement.

The mother he had never had, the brother he had not been given. _The friend he did not deserve._

Altaïr stepped into the musty silence of the Bureau's main room, small and cramped with all the many ancient scrolls and tomes that had been collected by rafiqs past. Picking up the map that had been thrown down in Malik's hurry to reach and treat his injury, Altaïr placed it gingerly back onto the teak countertop, trying to press the rip through the middle out of existence with his fingers. Finding the shattered inkpot still in its disgraced position between the wall and a nearby shelf, the assassin swept the delicate pieces of ceramic into his hand, looking around for somewhere to dispose of them before figuring he could throw them somewhere outside.

The climb proved to be much more painful than he expected. Altaïr almost cried out once, his aching back and side a testament to how much he had pushed himself in the past couple of missions. He was still injured. He shouldn't be moving. The nagging voice of the rafiq who still remained unconscious beneath his feet was almost palpable in his mind. A small smile, and then the assassin heaved himself up onto the roof, favoring his weakened arm by cradling it to his chest.

Pain. He was not immune to it either. Malik had bit deep into him when he had claimed as much. There was no way that even he could escape the physical burden that was his duty. He was an assassin. He bled and bled and bled until there was no more in his veins and he fell to the dust. It had been what he was born to do. There was no other option. Even now, with his rank corrupted by his arrogance, he still continued on the unerring path that had been decided for him. Through every cut and bruise and beating that his body received, he was enlightened. Pain was his friend, his ever-present accomplice through his journey.

There was also fear. He could not deny that his heart pounded a tattoo on the inside of his ribcage when he stood before the dizzying precipice of the world, preparing to leap into the earth's embrace. It was called a leap of faith for a reason. If he erred at all, it would be his death. Death did not scare him. Failure did.

Malik had always erred on the side of caution. Altaïr had always decided that caution was not needed in his profession. Perhaps, for once, he had been wrong.

Throwing the shards of broken ink pot onto the empty alley below, the assassin paused to wipe a sheen of sweat from his brow. The sun was making his skin bristle, and the lack of his usual outfitting made him feel ridiculous. The bandaging on his shoulder itched terribly, but he resisted pulling them off for fear of awakening the wrath of his companion. He would force rest upon him, and for all that he would complain, Altaïr knew that he needed it desperately. Even standing was an exertion, making his head swim and his vision blur. He could not travel in this state. Malik understood this. He would spend his time in the Bureau, under the watchful gaze of the Jerusalem rafiq.

He could think of worse punishments. At least the Bureau was safe and the water was clean. There was food available. The company, for all of its complaining, was a welcome relief. Malik's cursing matched those of the sailors on the Acre docks, but his touch was gentle and his scent was-

Altaïr shook the thought from his head, feeling a heat that had nothing to do with the sun creep up his neck and cheeks. His mind would not stray there. Not now. Once they had been close. Now it was a different matter. The assassin turned and began his painful descent back into the Bureau, landing in a disgruntled heap on the pillows that had been stacked for the purpose of breaking his fall. Entering back into the sleeping quarters where he had spent the night before, Altaïr found Malik in the same place he had left him in, head rolled to the side, mouth agape.

He made himself as comfortable as he could, and settled down to wait for Malik to awaken. If he ran off in the shape he was in, he wouldn't make it to the front gate of Jerusalem.

****

_How does it feel out on the ice?_  
_You speak to the crowd but nobody hears,_  
_It's not a dream and you are no prize,_  
_And you're not alone, come in from the fear…_

_****  
_

Even in a room without windows, the burning sun still managed to slice its way through the darkness, itching at Malik's eyelids until he unwillingly let them drift open. He felt like he had slept for a thousand years. The aches in his neck acquired from hours of pouring over dusty tomes and maps had miraculously vanished, and the rafiq sat up with relative ease, working his remaining arm in a wide circle, pulling the kinks out and sighing contentedly. The dream had not jerked him into the world of the living as he had thought it would. He was instead allowed to sleep uninhibited, an occasion that he had not had the joy of experiencing since Solomon's Temple.

Not only were the aches gone, but the weight of so many emotions, sadness and pain that had only been mounting since his brother's death and the loss of his arm, seemed to have disappeared with the visions of the night before. Malik wouldn't help but let a flickering smile cross his lips, moving his legs in an effort to stand.

It wasn't until he had moved from the sitting position that he recognized the extra weight on his lap as not of his own body.

The rafiq stuttered slightly, the half-formed words he had been trying to utter falling to the floor uselessly. Altaïr had somehow found his way into the bed with him, resting on his uninjured side, bandaged arm draped protectively around Malik's robed waist. The assassin had not left. He had remained, and was now sleeping fitfully, a frown drifting across his face.

"Altaïr…?" A gentle shake was enough to start his companion into action, the man lunging forward and up, tackling Malik back to the floor with ease. A knife that the rafiq hadn't even seen hidden in his hand flashed from the darkness, singing through the air and coming to rest on his throat. A shuddering breath, and sleep-fogged grey eyes met his own wide brown. "Brother stop." Panic rose in his throat, and Malik couldn't help but hold his breath, watching as recognition slowly filtered through the other man's eyes as he hovered over the rafiq.

"Malik." His name was not even a question. It was an utterance, filled with pain and grief and an overwhelming need, like a plea. The knife disappeared back into the recesses of the blankets, and the assassin bowed his head, breaking eye contact with the still-shocked rafiq.

"Malik I'm sorry I didn't…. you surprised me." His tone was that of a scolded child, and Malik felt his heart ache for the man before him. Forgiveness had been a difficult path for him to follow, especially for Altaïr. They had been inseparable once, as younger men. Now they walked on eggshells, afraid of the harsh words that the other might let fall. Where had they gone wrong?

"It's… it's alright. You don't need to apologize for being alert." Altaïr's frown told enough, and Malik sighed, running a hand over his face and scrubbing at the stubble on his neck. "You have done nothing wrong. Don't blame yourself for something else."

A nod, slow and contemplating. The assassin helped the rafiq sit up again, pulling him into a sitting position before retreating again, resting on his haunches. "Are you… are you well, Malik?"

"What do you mean?"

'You… didn't seem to want to wake up this morning. I tried to…" Worry. It was etched across Altaïr's face, as readable as any map of Jerusalem. He had never seen the man so open, and it was as much surprising as it was chilling. Had the injury affected his mind as well? Proud, fierce, stubborn. Never open. He had always struggled with emotions, and here they were painted on his face as clear as day.

"What are you talking about? I feel better than I have in years." A sour note that the man did not intend had crept into his voice, and Altaïr sat back as if stung, hurt burning in his eyes.

"I am keeping you from your work, Malik. I should go." The assassin stood to move out of the room, his shoulders hunched as if against any more verbal barbs that the rafiq might throw at him. Malik sighed again, brushing his hair out roughly with his fingers before standing and following Altaïr out of the room.

"You are injured, Altaïr. You need to rest yourself or you will drop dead before you can even reach Masyaf."

"I know when I am not wanted, rafiq. Safety and peace." It took a moment for Malik to realize that the assassin really meant to leave the Bureau.

"Altaïr! Don't be an ass." The words were snarled, and the one-armed man walked briskly forward, grabbing ahold of the other man's uninjured arm, spinning him around to face him. Even without his hood, the assassin's gaze was smoldering, and Malik had to keep himself from stepping backwards, out of the sphere of danger. "I'm not trying to start another verbal war with you, brother. You are injured. You need rest. Even a man as great as yourself," Malik let his fingers ghost over the bandaged shoulder, watching as Altaïr registered pain briefly across his face, "needs to allow himself some time to heal."

"Malik…" The rafiq could feel the defeat in the way the assassin said his name, and frowned slightly to himself. He'd stack injury upon injury on himself, and he'd never forgive his own failures. There were words there. They remained unsaid. "Thank you for providing me with safe passage, brother. Your concern is more than I deserve."

"You have earned every emotion that I can create, Altaïr." Malik allowed himself a small smile, and pressed his remaining hand to the small of the other man's back, pushing him back towards the darkness of the room they had emerged from earlier. He had to protect this man. If he didn't, he would be worked into the earth as if he was a pack mule. No-one deserved the life that he had led.

It was only after the assassin had fallen back into slumber that Malik allowed himself to look fully on the other. The sleep was unbroken, and no nightmares seemed to plague his companion's dreams. Ghosting his hand over the injured shoulder, the rafiq moved up to feel Altaïr's forehead. No fever. He would recover fully, with the exception of a few scars. Holding his breath, the one-armed man smoothed two fingers over the coarse jawline of the assassin, coming to rest at his chin before dropping his hand to his side again.

Altaïr had not awoken, had not attempted to jam a knife into the rafiq's neck. There was trust again, as flickering and dim as a tallow candle. But it existed. Altaïr had not found reason to extinguish that flame, not yet anyway. And so Malik would follow suit. They needed to trust each other.

The one-armed assassin stood slowly, making his way back into the garden. The only sounds were the gurgling of the small fountain, and the distant shouts and conversation from the city of Jerusalem. Settling himself on the pile of pillows that sat in the corner of the room, Malik craned his neck upward, hand extended on his lap to catch the mottled lights and darks that the lattice-work cast on the courtyard.

So he was at peace now? No. Never. There would always be a small portion of his heart that would forever be lost to the sands of time. But…. Perhaps he could begin to look for a way to heal. Malik let the heavy rafiq robes slide from his shoulders, the dark cloth coming to rest around him like the murky waters of the Orontes. Tentatively using his remaining hand, the man touched the stump where his arm had once been attached, running his fingers over the bandaged shoulder. He had not bothered to touch the thing in ages. He couldn't even stand to look at it once. But now….

A small smile, fleeting and frail. Looking up once again at the blue sky beyond the Bureau's closed roof, Malik stretched out his arm, as if to grasp at the azure heavens and take them into his possession. A shadow, the ever-circling of a hawk through the skies. A promise.

"Thank you… Kadar."

* * *

**Author's Notes: HOLY HELL THIS TOOK FOREVER. Sorry for the wait, everyone who is reading! I was originally going to stop here, but I might continue on and add another chapter or two. Perhaps Malik telling Altaïr of his dream/vision. As I write this, I realize that the plot of this fic is very similar to RavensRequiem's story _The Cross He Bears_. The similarity was not intended, I assure you. Go read hers, it's far superior to mine. **


	4. Chapter 4

"Return and report to Al Mualim, Altaïr. He will want to know that there was a decoy set up by Robert to distract you." Malik skimmed through the book under his hand, but his eyes were not focusing on the words, instead following the pacing of the assassin before him as he wore a groove into the hard packed earth.

"No. I must ride for Arsuf, or this war will never end. I need to stop Robert from speaking with Richard, or he will surely persuade him with his words. And then the Brotherhood will be hunted, and the Creed will die." Altaïr made a chopping motion with his hand as if to bring the discussion to an end, before pulling his arm back to lace with the other and rest them behind his head once again.

"This is a fool's errand, brother. You cannot fight through both sides of this war in order to reach King Richard. You are one man. It would be suicidal to even try."

"You never seemed to have an issue with my missions and the danger I have encountered before, Malik. Why do you hesitate now, when there is so much at stake?" Altaïr turned on his heel to face the rafiq, his brows knitted underneath the hooked hood. His face was a mask of concern and anger, and his eyes flickered with hatred, not for Malik, but for people and ideas beyond the Bureau. He had encountered much on his path towards redemption, and it had left him a changed man, if not scarred and bitter.

The pacing resumed.

Malik sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and momentarily retreating into himself to think. Of course this mission was necessary. Robert had to be stopped at all costs. He was the crucial point, the remaining thorn in the side of the assassin who stood before him. If this war was to end, then sacrifices had to be made. He just wished that it could be someone else who was to take up the mantle and travel to Arsuf, and not Altaïr. Trust had just started to regrow the limbs that had been hacked from it brutally at the Temple of Solomon. He could not stand to see their hard work uprooted for a simple mission.

What had Altaïr seen, what had he heard, that had made him wish to disobey orders?

"I hesitate because these words are ringing true to the ones you uttered before and during our final missions together, brother." The one-armed man watched as Altaïr paused in his seemingly endless path across the Bureau floor, his head turning to warily stare at Malik as he leaned over the counter casually. They had not spoken of his disastrous mission for months. It had been appropriate to keep it hidden, a secret bond that somehow kept them closer. Once upon a time it had repelled the two like vinegar in water. Paths had changed, wounds had healed.

"You know that I am not that man, Malik. I cannot, will not make such an error as that ever again." The assassin held up his hands, palm up, as if to show that he meant no harm, that he was true to his word.

"I understand better than anyone else that the pride-glutted man I once knew and loathed has long ago vanished. But I also know that old habits die hard, and that you cannot easily change ways that have been engrained in you since you were a small boy." A knowing look passed between them, and Altaïr dropped his head to look at his dust covered boots, momentarily at a loss. The rafiq had known him for so long, and yet it felt like their childhood had died when they became full-fledged assassins. There was no time for games or foolishness.

"I have made up my mind, brother. I must ride for Arsuf. You may scold me all you like, as is your pleasure. But there are things that I have learned through my dealings with these… targets. It has left me with so many questions, ones I am not comfortable with. They have tested my allegiance to the Creed. I need them answered, and so far all Al Mualim has done is dance around them until I feel like a fool for even asking." Altaïr struggled to form the words, his face working through a myriad of different expressions as he tried to voice his thoughts. Malik nodded sympathetically, closing the book that had sat long forgotten under his elbow. His companion was a painfully closed individual. The fact that he was voicing concerns and not just charging into plans that only he knew about meant that the man was learning. He could trust the rafiq with his beliefs once again.

"I will not stop you, Altaïr. You know that I cannot, even if I tried with all my might. I am confident in your abilities, just not… your direction." At the glare he received from across the room, Malik quickly amended his statement. "I am not questioning your allegiance to the Creed and your brothers. I am simply warning that to go against your orders is to once again stir the anger of the Master."

"I know that he will be angry. It is in his nature to be. I am not a dog, I do not bow to anyone." The words were said quietly, but the rafiq heard the dangerous tone within, hidden to any untrained ear. He knew this man, and what he was capable of. The old pride had once again flared to life, and for once Malik was glad to see it. The forced missions in order to gain back his position were humiliating enough. To be used as a pawn, as Altaïr suspected, was even more so.

"Be careful then. Do not say that I didn't warn you though." The one-armed man sighed gently, and drew a feather from beneath the teak counter, placing it carefully before him and giving the assassin a pointed stare. "I mean it."

"I know you do." Altaïr let a small smile flit across his features before he plucked the white feather from where it sat amidst the stack of books and papers, putting it into one of the many pouches on his belt before turning to leave.

"Altaïr!" It was with much less grace than Malik had planned, and he internally winced at his tone. The assassin slowly stepped back into the room, his eyebrow quirked. Memories of the dream came back to him, and although the rafiq wanted badly to say something about it to the man before him, he simply could not bring himself to utter Kadar's name. Not at such a crucial moment. "Keep me posted on any events or troubles you may encounter. I will not send them along to Al Mualim unless you request it." The words were muttered, and Malik lowered his head to avoid Altaïr's gaze, finding the scratches in the counter vividly interesting instead.

"As you wish."

A swirl of fabric as the man whipped out the door, and he was gone.

It had been a hard ride to Masyaf. There had barely been enough time to pack enough food and water for the long journey. But the consequences of not acting as fast as humanly possible were as clear as day.

At first he had not believed that their master, the very man who had raised both he and Altaïr from boys, could possess the same goals as the Templars. Malik had thought that his friend's words were some effect of madness, and that the master assassin had somehow lost his mind during the course of his many missions. There had been times when Malik thought that the man would break under the physical and mental strain of the tasks he was set to perform. As strong as he was, he was only human.

He had worried then, had prayed guiltily to a god that he didn't believe existed, for his friend to return safely to Jerusalem. Altaïr had not let him down, though he often dragged himself into the Bureau more dead than alive. It was not the physical injuries that bothered him, however. It was the mental state of the man who had once boasted and preened like the eagle that he had gained his namesake from. Altaïr was a strong, proud man. His eyes, which once burned with a flame that seemed impossible to extinguish, now looked out from under his hood with such sadness and confusion that it was hard for Malik to bear. He was a wraith, who wandered from mission to mission and performed the duties he was assigned.

He looked for all the world like he had been condemned to death, even as his heart beat and his lungs pulled air in and out. Everything was a motion, an action, a formulaic construction that he need only solve and finish and then be done with. There was no life in those eyes any longer.

Altaïr had told Malik that the men he had killed had spoken to him before they had died. They had said strange things, concepts that were shrouded with confusion, haphazardly worded as death claimed their owners. At first he had ignored them. He had to. The words of a dead man meant nothing to an assassin. They existed purely in the real world, and performed tasks for the living.

Death did not bring any assassin fear. When they died, so did their mission and the beliefs that they as an individual held. The only words that meant anything to them were those of the Creed. The Creed alone survived the cold grip of death, lived on to inhabit the soul of the next assassin.

As time passed however, Malik saw that realization was beginning to dawn on Altaïr. Whatever he had been exposed, it was working through him like a maggot through flesh. The man struggled to comprehend what he was being told, juggled the words of his targets with the words of his master. He spoke less and less about the missions he was assigned to, as if he was afraid that he would be struck down for uttering blasphemy against his master. Al Mualim had been a father to them both. What place did Altaïr have to reject the teachings he had absorbed all of his life, to spit them back into the face of the one man who had seen him as something other than worthless?

It was Malik who had tried to encourage Altaïr, to keep him on the path of the Creed, to pull him back to the center where he belonged. It was Solomon's Temple all over, it seemed. It scared the rafiq, more than death. His friend, who had made such a grave mistake and had cost him his arm and his brother, was drifting away from the words of his master, flinching as if stung when his name was uttered.

Altaïr was no idiot. He understood when he was being played for a fool. And he had somehow found realization in the speeches of his targets. One glance upwards had revealed to him that the master puppeteer was indeed Al Mualim. He had tried once to convince Malik. The rafiq had turned him away, sending him back to report to the very man who was corrupting the Brotherhood from the inside. It was a mistake he regretted. Altaïr had not been the same since.

Turning his horse abruptly and then patting its flank to calm the beast, Malik glanced up at the walls of Masyaf, his face a mask of disgust. He had called this home once. He had felt safe here. This was where he had spent his childhood, where he had trained, where he had returned forsaken and had learned to cope with the loss of his arm. The old stone walls nearly overflowed with memories.

He had sent Altaïr away. He had sent his friend to extinguish his master's life and end the Templar hold on their Brotherhood. He had asked one more task of the man who had already repented so much and given away everything until he had no more to give,

And now he was going to give up his life to end that of Al Mualim. If Malik did not intervene, the last thread of the life he once had would slip from his fingers.

Urging his steed forward into a brisk trot, Malik directed the horse through the steep cliff passes that led to the Assassin stronghold, tutting and cooing in order to comfort the animal that shivered beneath him. The ride had taken its toll on them both. He had barely stopped to restock on provisions or rest, so intent was he to reach Masyaf in time. "I promise you rest and food, good friend," the rafiq muttered, running his hand over the sweaty flank of the horse and giving a few reassuring pats before tapping his heels into its belly and urging it forward. Looking back up to the castle's foreboding exterior, he frowned. "If you do not survive this battle, Altaïr…" He left the sentence unfinished.

If Altaïr never came back, he wouldn't be able to live with himself.

Something was wrong. He felt it in his heart, and Malik's blood ran cold as he saw his brothers, the ones who he had fought for, being cut down without mercy.

His heart stopped when he saw that the man wielding the blade, now dripping with blood, was Altaïr. Had he gone mad?

Malik was about to call the other assassin's name when he heard movement behind him. Their hideout had been found, it seemed. The rafiq swore loudly and drew his own sword, brandishing it threateningly as their enemies drew closer.

Not his enemies. They had been his friends once. Even now, he recognized some of their faces. They had worked within the city, had performed assassin duties, had lost their ring fingers, same as he and Altaïr. But they had been turned against him; the expressions they wore were not of those of the living. They had passed on in spirit, and all that remained was their bodies, willed on by the power of the Apple.

Realization dawned on the rafiq, and his sword wavered in mid-air, uncertainty washing over him. Altaïr fought them because they had been brain-washed. He was not mad, he was killing his brethren in order to reach the source of the evil, so that a few might survive the attack. Another open wound to add to the already mounting list of psychological injuries that the man had suffered. It was a miracle that he had not plunged a dagger into his own heart in order to escape the immense pain of simply existing.

It was with a choked back sob that Malik took his first swing, side-stepping the fierce sword swipe that his opponent made and cutting deeply into the man's shoulder with his own blade. The wound was fatal, and the man fell to the ground, blood seeping through his assassin whites and out of his nose and mouth. But there was no sound. He didn't even utter a cry of pain or surprise. The rafiq shivered, and felt the bile rise in his throat. This was no way to die, without even the dignity to say their last words to their God. He had never been a religious man, but it just seemed right. They would receive a proper burial, when this was all finished.

Another man fell to his blade, and Malik took off after the third, who had begun to back away. A kick sent him falling over the edge of the cliff, onto the sharp rocks below. Although his mouth opened, there was no surprised gasp as his body broke on the unforgiving ground.

"What have you done, Al Mualim…" The rafiq shook the blood off his blade before sheathing it again and following the curving path down the mountain towards the main part of the village. He and the handful of assassins who had accompanied him, those who were not under the curse of the Apple, had found a way into Masyaf through a mountain pass, one that was overgrown with trees and rough grass. It was an effort, and the horses had to be left behind near the path's beginning.

Malik had been determined to keep the ever watchful gaze of the Master from their group, even as Altaïr took the front gate entrance. He did not need any more worries, especially since he was unaware that the rafiq was trailing his progress through the city. What they had not expected was resistance, and from their own people.

A grunt caught his attention, and Malik turned towards the source, watching as Altaïr fell to one of the assassin's blades, struggling to stand again as a sword was raised in a killing blow over his head. The rafiq felt as if time had slowed to a crawl, his eyes wide as they followed the inevitable arc of the blade, a strong cut downward that would decapitate it's target.

Altaïr.

Malik heard himself call the man's name, saw his remaining arm grasp at the throwing knife in his belt, and watched as if detached from his body as the blade sliced through the air, straight into the neck of its intended target.

The assassin crumpled sideways in a silent puff of dirt, sword clattering from his hands uselessly. The others who had been moving in to attack faltered, their dead eyes looking around wildly for the source of the attack. Altaïr had regained his balance, his head snapping upwards to the source of the voice that had called his name.

"Malik…?" Confusion, and then he saw relief wash over the tightly drawn face. "Why are you here?"

"For the same reason as you, brother." The rafiq patted the sword at his side, glad that there was distance between him and his friend; his hand was shaking from the emotional strain.

"I will not have you endangering yourself by fighting Al Mualim. This is my battle." That old pride once again, but this time laced with concern. Malik shook his head, pointing towards the castle that loomed ominously behind him.

"You have my word that I will not interfere, Altaïr. Me and the others will try and distract the remaining… obstacles, whole you make your way up there." Using any other word sounded sour on his tongue. They were not his brothers any longer.

"Safety and peace, Malik."

"Your presence will deliver us both."

It was with these words that Malik turned away, heading back through the underbrush, sword once again drawn. He wouldn't watch the man die. It was not within any strength that he possessed to watch the last shred of the great Altaïr's sanity destroyed. New resolve coursed through him, and the rafiq leapt onto the next hypnotized group of assassins he came across. He would provide the diversion that his friend needed, even if it cost him his own life.

He had thought that his training had prepared him. He had thought, foolishly, that he would be able to defeat any opponent. He was the invincible Altaïr, Eagle of Masyaf.

As a well-aimed boot kicked him to the ground, the assassin realized that he had been gravely mistaken.

A roll to the left was all that saved him from the sword that burrowed deeply into the earth where he had been a fraction earlier, and Altaïr stood with difficulty to once again face his foe.

Foes.

Al Mualim had used the Apple to his advantage, creating copies of his form to confuse the assassin. He was using all of his speed to deflect the blows that were aimed at him from all angles, but in the process was incapable of landing any attacks of his own.

Another kick sent Altaïr's legs sprawling out from under him, and he hit the ground hard. His instincts screeched at him to stand once again, and his battered body obeyed, albeit slower than he would have liked. A grunt, and he was up again, sword brandished before him. A cut on his forehead was dripping blood into his eye, blinding him on one side. His hood had been thrown back some time during the fight, and he now glared openly at his former master, gaze unhindered by the usual shadow of the cowl.

The old man was speaking to him, but he barely heard the words, anger buzzing like a swarm of bees in his head. He would not listen to the lies. He had been fed them long enough to know how bitter and empty they made him. Another lunge, and he dodged it, cutting down one of the clones and stabbing it fiercely through the heart.

Rage built in his heart, but he ignored it. If he let his emotions get ahold of him, he would become sloppy. It was one thing to let his anger influence him, but another to let them control his actions all together. A low hiss of breath as Altaïr slowly exhaled, trying to calm his mind and keep his hands from shaking.

He would let the emotions come later. They were not to be ignored. He had suffered too much to simply let them go like so much dust to the desert winds. The pressing matter at hand was revenge.

It was with the impossible vision of Malik with both arms, fighting beside him in his mind, that Altaïr dove once again into the myriad of copies, plunging his blade through as many of them as he could get his hands on. Al Mualim would suffer. He had destroyed everything he held dear, all for the sake of a power that had corrupted him.

Focusing on the last figure standing, Altaïr made his move, hidden blade sliding effortlessly into place in his hand and sinking into the neck of his Master with a crunch of bone. Al Mualim's face widened in surprise, even as he dropped his sword and reached up to touch the wound that now bubbled with dark, fresh blood, bringing his hand up to look at his stained fingers incredulously.

"Impossible… The student does not defeat the teacher…." He croaked the words before letting his legs buckle from beneath him, reaching desperately for the assassin's robes and pulling him down with him. Altaïr loathed to even touch the man, but allowed the movement, supporting his head and gazing coldly at him as he sputtered around mouthfuls of blood.

The Apple sat where it had rolled when Al Mualim fell, silently glinting in the weak sunlight. He ignored it, for the sake of his sanity. It had caused him nothing but suffering.

"Altaïr!" The familiar voice, and the assassin lifted his head from where he was gazing intently at his master's face, inspecting it as if to find the source of evil as a dark blemish on his person. He had not been corrupt, once.

Malik came sprinting into the courtyard, his sword wet with fresh blood and leaving a trail of dark crimson behind him. He stopped short as he saw Altaïr cradle Al Mualim's body in his arms, and the assassin could read the rage as it spread through the man's face and body language like fire.

"I will kill him if he lingers too long." The hatred in the rafiq's voice was almost palpable, and the blade that appeared at Al Mualim's throat said enough.

"No. He is dying. Let him be." Altaïr blinked hard before gently letting his master slide from his grasp, dropping him to the lush green grass. A few dry swallows, and the man used two blood-stained fingers to close the eyes of the man who lay gasping before him, punctured throat spasming wildly as it struggled to draw in breath.

"La shaiq' waqee mutlak bl kollin mumkin." It was all he could think to say. It was all that needed to be said. It was finally over.

A bright orange light burst to his left, and Altaïr turned towards it, shading his eyes against the intensity. The Apple came to life, its surface illuminated like molten iron. A map slowly filtered into existence, hovering in the air as if by magic.

"What is this sorcery…?" Malik muttered the words more to himself than anyone else, sword dropping from his hands and lying forgotten in the dirt.

"It does not matter, Malik." The assassin turned to face his brother, and a smile cracked his blood-stained features. "Because it is over."

Altaïr's eyes closed, and he crumpled sideways in a dead faint. The last thing he saw before the dark bliss of unconsciousness took him was the concerned face of Malik, hovering over his prone body. Then the world went black.


End file.
